Amare Mortem
by thelittlewinchesterthatcould
Summary: John receives a diagnosis of terminal cancer, forcing the two men to face the reality of death. One-shot. Triggers for major character death and suicide. Rated M for a reason.


John had a raging headache that day. He went into the surgery, but Sarah dismissed him early, seeing he was in pain. He took a cab and hurried back to the flat, head still raging. Sherlock came to the door almost instantly, hearing John's muffled cussing out side the door.

"You're early." Sherlock said.

"Yes, well I had a bit of a headache so Sarah gave me leave. I couldn't focus." John snapped. Inwardly Sherlock wondered what John was peevish about. It was just a headache, after all.

* * *

Three days, later, the headache hadn't gone away. John was in a state of constant peevishness, snapping and light and sound that disturbed him. Sherlock began to worry about his friend. He had heard of several cases where brain tumors caused prolonged headaches, and he didn't want to take chances. He decided to approach John at breakfast (whatever that was supposed to be). Sherlock actually made breakfast that day, so John was immediately suspicious when he approached the table.

"What are you doing? Are you trying to dose me with psychoactive drugs again?" John asked warily.

"No John, I'm just trying to actually be a nice person for once. Are you complaining?" Sherlock questioned.

"No, it just seems… out of character." John said. John sat down as Sherlock heaped eggs on his plate. He pushed his plate to the side and started to fix one for John. "Hey mate, I can fix one for myself." John said, a little angry. Why was Sherlock being so _protective_ today? John got up and piled more eggs on his plate, just to spite Sherlock. They both sat down, feeling extremely flustered.

"John, I think you should go get a check-up. A headache that lasts for three days isn't normal." Sherlock said, empathy flooding his voice. He'd been through some nasty headaches after drugs when he was younger, and he knew they weren't any fun.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Stop being such a mother. I thought that was my job." John said, while wincing. He'd just gotten a nasty jolt.

"John, I'm serious. These may be because of a brain tumor." Sherlock said. "How would you know, one of your little textbooks?" John sneered.

"No, John. I know because my mother complained of one like this when she was about 40. She died a month or so after. Because of a tumor. I don't want to take a chance with you, John." Sherlock said, pouring all of his sadness into his voice. John's anger immediately dissipated.

"Oh. I'm so sorry, I've been a real jerk these past couple days, haven't I?" John said.

"Yeah, you have," Sherlock said. " But I wasn't kidding about my mother, or the check-up. You are going to get that looked at." Sherlock said with a note of reprimand. "Okay, mother." John said, not noticing the sting Sherlock received.

* * *

One of Mycroft's cars pulled up about two hours later. It seemed that this was of enough importance that Sherlock had called Mycroft. That worried John. He got into the car and it petered off. It pulled into Bart's just as a new wave of pain hit John's head. He fell as he got out of the car, injuring his bad shoulder in the process. The driver jumped out, helped him up, and sped away. John walked to the front desk and checked in.

"Ah, yes, Dr. Watson, please wait here. You'll be called up shortly." the receptionist said. John sat down to think. He had heard of many types of brain tumors. He hadn't studied them a lot, preparing for more injury than illness. Now he wished he had.

* * *

"Please come in, Dr. Watson. I have something to tell you." the doctor said. John sat down, a feeling of trepidation coming over him. "This is going to sound… bad. But I have no other way to tell you. Let me put it bluntly. You have a stage VI glioblastoma." the doctor said. The news hit John like a sucker punch. Glioblastomas were the most common of brain tumors, and the most deadly. "This I must also tell you. It's terminal. You have about a month to live." the doctor said. After that, John broke down. He took another of Mycroft's cars home, fresh tears spilling out of his already bloodshot eyes. As the car pulled up to 221B, the driver asked him, "Terminal?" John nodded. He made his way up the steps without another word.

* * *

He didn't know how to tell Sherlock. He just couldn't. He knew it would utterly crush his friend. He searched for the right time, but he didn't see an opportunity until Sherlock offered to go to Angelo's. Sherlock got the table, and they both sat down. Sherlock got the lasagna, and John didn't get anything. That was the first sign that Sherlock saw, the first sign that something was wrong.

"Sherlock, I have something to tell you. I don't know how to say it. I have… cancer. A stage VI glioblastoma. And… it's terminal. I don't want to dump this on you, but I have one month to live. I don't want you to spend that month in misery…" John said, his voice nearly cracking. He didn't have time to say anything else as Sherlock crumpled into his arms. He called Angelo, and he paid the tab as he and Sherlock left the restaurant.

* * *

Sherlock crumpled into his arms as soon as they entered the flat. His tears dried up almost immediately as John tucked him into his bed.

"What do you want to do… while you're here?" Sherlock asked, his voice quavering like a small boy's when his favorite toy is taken away.

"Sleep Sherlock, you'll need it." John whispered as he left the room. That night Sherlock's dreams were vivid and scary. He saw John slowly fading, disappearing to a world where he could never return. Many times he cried out in his sleep, whimpering for John or Molly or even Lestrade. He hated that feeling, of emptiness, of loss.

John just dreamt of oblivion.

* * *

John was up early the next day, for what reason he wasn't exactly sure. He didn't have anything to be up for. He had called Sarah last night, explained to her what had happened, and she tearily accepted his resignation. He was glad to get it over with. He didn't want her crying over him any longer. He found Sherlock at the table, madly typing on his computer.

"Sherlock, what are you doing on my computer?" he asked.

"Researching." Sherlock said in a flat, monotone voice. John peeked over his shoulder. He saw the tabs. Glioblastoma, terminal cancer, grief support.

"Sherlock, it will be okay. You don't have to…"John said, the sadness of years of death and grief in his voice. Sherlock got up and spun around out of his chair.

"NO, John, it's NOT okay. It's NOT! I don't know why people say that. It's not like they know what is happening, what is 'going on'. This is NOT okay, and I will protect you at all costs." Sherlock said, his voice strong with anger but at the same time trembling with fear.

"Sherlock, you can't protect me from a enemy that you can't see. You can't just deduce this bloody cancer to death! It doesn't work like that. It never has. I've seen people die instantly, or over a miserable stretch of weeks or months. You can't do that. Believe me, I've tried. I've tried, Sherlock…" John said, before sitting down hard. Sherlock sat down with him, practically cuddling. "I just want you to be happy, and I want to go peacefully at all costs. We've got to tell our friends eventually." John said.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed. "We should tell them apart, not at once. We should tell Mrs. Hudson first. Call her for tea, perhaps?"

"Alright. We should dress then, and put the kettle on." John gave in.

* * *

They told their friends, one by one, until everyone knew. Mrs. Hudson cried, Lestrade cried as well (but managed to hide it quite well), Mycroft sat there in silence, and Molly just hugged John. They all found out at different times, but Sherlock couldn't pretend he didn't see Lestrade crumple into Mycroft's chest with sobs. They had used a week. John decided not to tell his parents or Harry, seeing as they were rarely present in his life anymore. Sherlock tried to persuade him otherwise, but John held firm. "Don't need any more tears," were John's words to him as he tried to persuade John the last time. "My parents hate me, and my sister's too drunk to care. I don't want any more tears at my grave." Sherlock nodded, to respect the wishes of his flatmate. He called and told them anyway. He wanted them to be present for the funeral.

* * *

After two weeks, John was unable to leave the flat. Sherlock had given notice to Scotland Yard of his leave. He didn't want to be apart from John's side any longer than he had to. His nightmares were horrible now, visions of John leaving him alone, afraid, and lost. His childhood night terrors were back, leaving him even more tired in the mornings than he was going to sleep. John slept in his bed now, he either couldn't or didn't want to go upstairs.

All the while, John still dreamt of oblivion.

* * *

Another week had passed, leaving John with a prognosis of seven days. Sherlock had asked him what he wanted to do before he passed, but John's one and simple answer was, "To be with you." They never left each other's side, keeping watch on each other around the clock, to make sure the other never went out of their sight for a moment. On Wednesday, John asked if he could take one last tour of London. Sherlock agreed with a heavy heart. They revisited every crime scene they had ever been to, along with the pool, Bart's and the Tower. John returned home, certain that that was the last time he would ever see those places.

Sherlock's commentary on each scene had been hilarious. "Remember this scene, the poor woman's neck was nearly severed.", "Look at this one, I'm sure you don't like the memory of that vest.", "Ah, that's where the homeless guy was buried.", until John was laughing and the passersby were giving him strange looks. It was his best memory of London, and possibly his last. He sat down, thoroughly winded. Sherlock pulled out his violin and began to play Bach's Symphony No. 9. John curled up in his chair, tired as hell. He decided to go to sleep. He was tired after all, and he didn't want to keep Sherlock up much longer. As he sank into the darkness, his final thought was _goodbye, Sherlock._

* * *

Sherlock noticed his friend's unnatural stillness and rushed over to his friend's chair, dropping his violin. He checked for a pulse. He found none. He quickly called Lestrade, who found him there an hour later, hugging John and crying.

* * *

The funeral had been small and sad. During the graveside service, Sherlock realized it was too much. It was too much to take. He couldn't live without him. Sherlock found his friend's gun. It was tucked away in his dresser. He had left John's room untouched after. He couldn't stand to move a thing. He found a cartridge. He inserted it into the gun. He sat in John's old chair. It was too much. Just too much. He inserted it into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

It was later told you could hear the shot throughout London.

**A/N: I had this idea in my head, and I couldn't get it out. I just neede to write a short, sad thing. If you're wondering, Amare Mortem is Latin for Loving Death. This is my first story, please don't be too cruel in the reviews. And I close with this:**

**There's a man in a flat. He's all alone.**

**Drinking tea by himself, for nobody's home.**

**With no shoes on his feet and no hope in his heart,**

**He remembers that day, looking up at St. Barts.**


End file.
